


1000/500

by WahlBuilder



Category: Mars: War Logs
Genre: Bonding, Established Relationship, Husbands, Multi, Polyamory, Pre-Canon, Pre-Relationship, Technomantic Culture, twenty headcanons in a trench coat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-08
Updated: 2019-02-08
Packaged: 2019-10-24 11:17:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17703350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WahlBuilder/pseuds/WahlBuilder
Summary: Two Technomancers go to the travelling merchants stalls.(They don't know how fateful that trip to the stalls turns out to be.)





	1000/500

**Author's Note:**

> Written for OC Kiss Week 2019.

_Ancients, share your luck with me. The Council is anxious to see us fulfilled. How can I teach the young ones while I have no trine? My beloved says it is just as well, but I see how it troubles him, being unable to serve in the Temple just because of that formality. Perhaps we should seek outside the Source._

_At least fortify my resolve and patience, Ancients, for I swear on your bark that if Quil hits on Ash again, I will hit Quil._

‘Mis?’

_Speaking about hitting: what would you do if one of your students had problems with controlling rage? Did you, too, have to carry the charge of a kid so they don’t burn themself up?_

‘Missy! Talking to the trees again!’

Promise sighs and opens his eyes, then tilts his head back. His bond is looking at him with a pout on his lovely lips that Promise wants to kiss away immediately.

‘I am meditating upon the deeds of the First,’ he says solemnly.

‘As I said: talking to the trees.’

‘I will steal all the blankets, Ash,’ he threatens.

Ash shrugs. ‘Big deal. I will simply cuddle to you, _macushla_.’

Frowning as sternly as he can, Promise leans back—into Assurance’s arms. The plum tree covers them with petals.

They’ve been a match from the start—even though it was an explosive start, with Assurance fighting him in the training grounds over an ill-thought comment Promise had made. Promise ended up with a broken nose, Ash with a bite on his forearm, and both of them with a very stern disapproving silence from mentor Morality, which hurt more than their wounds. Promise spent three days agonising over that, and then went in search of his opponent, aching for the conflict to be resolved—in more violence or a truce, it didn’t matter. He sneaked out of the dorm at night and found Assurance by the Silent Pond—where Assurance was looking for him in turn. Assurance offered him a hand, and Promise took it—and they _knew_. Even though they fought again two weeks later.

They’ve been bonded for two years now—and yet to Promise it still feels like a wonder, like those first sparks—intense and welcoming. Ash has the heaviest punch and a singing voice that makes people weep in a good way, and Promise knows it is a gift, to have found yours so early and to know how to work both through highs and lows.

They don’t have a third.

Each of them is complete on his own, and together, they are _more_ —but nobody so far could add to that ‘more’. They have discussed extensively what they want from it. They don't want to have children, so that is one variant out. They don't need an older bondmate, so that one is off the table, too.

It is an ache.

‘I love you.’

Promise smiles. ‘You do? What a coincidence! I love you, too.’

They kiss despite the weird angle, Assurance’s hand on Promise’s chin, as the plum covers them with petals, the world suspended in peace.

‘Were you looking for me,’ Promise asks, taking Ash’s hand and pressing his lips to it, ‘just so you could profess your undying love?’

‘That—and a caravan has arrived.’

He grips Assurance’s hand. ‘ _Ash_ …’

‘What? I’m telling you now—’

‘Straight from Ophir?’

‘Yes! And Fer—’

He bites the side of Ash’s hand and jumps off the branch at Ash’s yelp and laughter. He presses his hand quick to the bole of the plum tree, sharing his Fluid, picks his jacket and takes off up the gravel path. ‘If there’s no books left from our cousins, Ash, I’m kicking you out of the bed.’

The crunching gravel tells him that his husband is following him.

They rush through the halls in a flurry of laughter and taunts, scaring a few kids and an older mentor. They don’t wear the blue, running out of the Source, though anyone glancing at their temples, their undercuts, would know. But they are running too fast to be caught.

They run up and down the stairs and ramparts across Tierville, and into the glory of the AllLights Square—which is, of course, already filled with people.

Promise, panting from the run, grabs Assurance’s hand to not lose him in the crowd.

The giant square feels small but cheerful, with the colourful stalls and flags, and people calling up their wares.

‘Which one is it?’ he asks Assurance. He has to raise his voice, and a few people look back at him—and part before him with murmured or raised ‘Venerable!’.

Ash’s laughter and squeeze of his hand breaks the somber image. ‘No idea, _macushla_!’

People carry them closer to the stalls, and Promise, with Assurance in tow, gets to one—not very crowded at all, luckily.

The merchant is standing on tiptoes, trying to fix a piece of rope on a nail. Promise leans over them and hooks the rope—and the cloud of the merchant’s perfume envelopes him. Something earthly, rich.

He retreats hastily.

The merchant turns to them. The sand-coloured vest they wear leave open their shoulders and arms—one a beautiful piece of metalwork, all skeleton-exposed, wiring and inner workings on display. The merchant flashes a smile and throws a mass of wavy black hair over their shoulder. Their tattoos are twisting lines running from the outer corner of their eyes to the temples and into the hairline.

‘The Merchant greets the Technomancers. He hoped the Technomancers would come.’ The merchant’s voice is singsongy and low, accent thick like his perfume.

Assurance nudges Promise to the shoulder with his chin. Promise can feel his bond’s excitement.

‘The Technomancers greet the Merchant,’ Promise replies. ‘Are we the first?’

The merchant nods. ‘No other Technomancer has come yet. The Merchant has your delivery from those of Ophir—and more, if,’ he smiles again, quick like a knife, ‘the Technomancers are interested.’

‘Oh, the Technomancers are _very_ interested,’ Ash murmurs into Promise’s shoulder. Ash’s heart is racing, and Promise feels his own picking up pace, too.

AllLights seems somehow distant.

Ash is a terrible enabler: the last year they ended up carrying a giant box of various books that they had no space in their quarters to fit into.

The merchant glances over Promise’s shoulder, no doubt at Assurance, and flashes that quick smile again, narrowing his eyes. ‘The Merchant thinks he has something the Technomancers might like. Something special.’

If both of them turn against him, Promise doesn’t stand a chance. But he wants to see it, too, whatever it is. Assurance shifts behind him, pressing closer, sneaking a hand round his waist.

The book the merchant carries out to them is surprisingly… small. But he holds it with both hands, as though something precious, and Promise takes it with both hands, too.

The edges are rounded and dipped in gold dust, the rest of the cover a deep green. There is no title. He runs a finger over the spine, sending Fluid through. It is old but it’s not Colonist-old. The proportions are slightly unusual, more slender than close of the golden ratio.

Promise opens the book.

The pages are _purple_ , so deep it looks black until the light falls onto them at a certain angle. And the writing, thin and beautiful, is in gold ink.

_Amor de mis entrañas, viva muerte…_

He closes it quickly, trapping the words within. ‘I don’t even know your name,’ he croaks.

The merchant smiles. His eyes are dark. ‘The Merchant is called Umar.’

‘What does Umar want for this book?’

The merchant looks between them again, and throws his head back, the mass of black hair shimmering. ‘A thousand kisses.’

Assurance moves to stand side by side with Promise, their hands locked. Promise looks at his husband, then at the merchant. The smile is there in the dark eyes.

‘And how long the Merchant is staying in Shadowlair?’ Assurance asks. His voice is raspy, and his field is vibrating.

‘For the whole summer, at least,’ the merchant purrs.

Promise exchanges glances with his bond, then shrugs. ‘Five hundred kisses each?’ He looks at the merchant, wets his lips. ‘We should start now, then.’


End file.
